


Little Lion Men

by mettaverse



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alpha Keith (Voltron), Alpha Shiro (Voltron), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Arranged Marriage, M/M, Omega Lance (Voltron), Shiro and Keith are half brothers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-01-18 11:20:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12387048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mettaverse/pseuds/mettaverse
Summary: The Kingdom of Altea has been conquered by the ever-growing Galra Empire, leaving Lance and Allura adrift at sea, begging for a safe haven. Meanwhile, the world is in shambles, the Paladins of old slaughtered by Zarkon's hand and the Lions' connection to their children on Earth practically severed.In the sibling's quest to regain Altea and restore peace, sacrifices must be made and deals broken. Whatever happens, one thing is sure; prince and princess will do anything to see their world restored.





	1. the ash is in our clothes

**Author's Note:**

> hey there guys! so i've been working on this piece for a long time and its kind of my baby. i love fantasy and i love abo so i wanted to do a piece with both of them. and also while i love both of these things there are things that annoy me about them SO this is really going to challenge some deep seated stereotypes and tropes in the abo world and i'm just super excited and i hope you guys like it!!
> 
> the song for our prologue is: the ash is in our clothes by sleeping at last

_Ash fall tickled her nose, lazy in its descent to the ground. When she was little, Allura would ask her father about the snow_ ; how cold is it? Is it as white like my hair, or like the sand? Does it taste funny? Does it melt when it hits the ground?

  _A piece stuck in a coagulating puddle of blood sitting in her palms. It was hot to the touch and_ gray _like corpses. “Father.” Her voice scratched against her throat. “Father, what's burning?”_

_She turned to see her father, once proud and strong, slumped, still inside the tunnel walls, unmoving. She could smell the blood trickling from his ribs, waterfall from the world, a crack in the face of the earth. “Father?”_

_He smiled at her and beckoned her closer. “Daughter.” His voice was brittle and wheezing. “Please.” It was difficult to run to him limping but she managed it; she could still taste the adrenaline in her veins, feel her fangs piercing her lips._

_She reached on her tippy toes and pressed her forehead against his. “I am so_ proud _of you,” he whispered. Copper sat on his breath, sticking to her cheeks_.

 “ _Why are you saying this? Why are you stopping? We need to-”_

 _“Allura.” His voice broke for the first time in Allura's life. That is the only reason she stopped. “Please,_ keiki. _” He moved a shaking hand from his hip and pressed it against the side of her face. “You have been so, so_ strong. _It's not fair, but you've done it. Do you think you can continue on? Do you think you can be strong for your brother? For Altea?”_

 _She was shaking hard, the adrenaline dripping down her spine like the blood dripping down her father's. And still, he was there, a rock despite the holes in his body, in his soul. She was so_ tired _; it was more than the bone-deep exhaustion, the bags under her eyes, or the wounds littering her body. It was the way she closed her eyes and saw the bodies of her friends. It was the way she could taste blood in every morsel of food they found, how she could never quite get red out of her clothes, out of her hair._ I don't want to _._ “ _I can.” She knew she could. She had to be._

  _He smiled. Behind him, the footfalls of Galra men echoed down the tunnel. They were closer, faster and uninjured. He glanced at Coran behind Allura and he came unbidden, pressed his forehead against his soul brother's, his King. “Protect them.” Coran gave a simple nod, his eyes dry and resolute._

_Her father leaned down and cupped her brother's slack, red stained face. Coran's arms must have been burning for how long he had to carry him; though Lance might be small, Coran was not their father, and carrying a knocked out teenager for miles is difficult for anyone. “Be strong, my Lance.” He pressed a kiss to Lance's sleeping face._

_And then he nodded to Coran,_ smiling, _like he could ask for nothing more in the world. Like his world wasn't about to be torn away. Like_ he _wasn't about to be torn away. “Get to the ship, my love.”_

_Maybe in another life, she would have screamed, torn out her hair, and stayed with him by his side. Let herself be slaughtered alongside her father so they could hold hands and walk into the arms of her mother, of his mate, and never be tired again. She glanced at Lance, the gash in his head angry and bloody, and at Coran, his body covered in ash and blood not all his own._

_She let Coran grab her by the shoulder and twirl her around to the opening of the tunnel. “Don't look back,” he urged. And she didn't. Kept her eyes on the cove, on the foam lapping at their ship._

_She didn't look back when she heard the rumble of the tunnel._

_She didn't look back when she heard the shouts of Galra._

_She didn't look back when she felt the gust of wind push her forward, pebbles from the emergency escape pelting her the back of her head._

_She didn't look back._


	2. hushed whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> awkward dinner with the queen  
> this chapter gave me a lot of problems faljsfkl

 

She wakes to Lance pressed against her window, his face glowing from the white outside.

“...swear to the Goddess, if it gets colder than this my nipples are gonna fall off, Coran. Seriously.”

“My, if that does happen you're certainly with the right person. Why, ten years ago I single-handedly-”

Allura smiles. “Sewed back father's left pinky finger with nothing but a ball of twine and sheer force of will.” Coran and Lance turn to her, eyebrows raised. “We remember, Coran.”

“Lu!” Lance scrambles to the curtains and tears them open, revealing a land of bright, bright white. “Lu, look! It's like-”

_Ash._

“-magic!”

Allura rubs her eyes, forcing sunspots away from her vision before turning to look out the window. _Magic._ The snow goes on for miles, and if Allura didn't know any better, she'd think this was all the world was; a sea of white, cold and unforgiving. Though perhaps it is, in the end.

But Lance is smiling, young face stretching to barely contain his happiness, his childlike glee. So she endures and buries the feeling of ash still burning her palms. “Yes,” she says. “It's like magic.”

Lance begins to ramble; _the sheep are so wooly here; I saw women with their face tattooed like back home, they said it was to have strong children; some of the houses were on stilts; a child from the village back there gave me his toy horse. They love horses here._

Of course, Allura knows all this- she did the proper research months in advance before setting foot on Mamorian lands. These strange people with short, dagger ears and moon crescent eyes. Though reading it on paper is different than looking out the carriage window to see children playing in the snow, those eyes of their lit up with an innocence and happiness that seems foreign, now.

Before the worried look on Lance's face grows she slaps a bigger smile on her own. “The people are kind here. We're lucky to have them welcome us so readily.” And it's the truth; they are lucky.

Lance's face doesn't light up again. Instead, his eyebrow cocks. “They are kind, aren't they.” There's an undercurrent of intention here, an emotion Allura can't pick up. “Kinder than anyone else has been in a while.”

“We are fortunate-”

“I don't know if fortune has anything to do with it.” Lance tilts his head. “Why are they so kind?”

Coran and Allura share a glance. Lance has always been clever. Too clever.

It's Coran that speaks up this time. “Because, my dear boy, these people have good heads on their brawny shoulders! They can tell investing their loyalty into the Altean family will give them the opportunity to reap bountiful rewards!”

Lance takes a moment, staring at Coran, looking at every wrinkle, every scar and piercing on his face. Allura holds her breath until it hurts.

But then there's Coran, clasping Lance's shoulder with an expression only family can have. “I know things have been hard, my Prince.” His hand moves to the side of Lance's face, his thumb grazing the scar that slashes across his eyebrow. Lance leans into the touch like a cat. “But please try to believe there is some good left in the world.”

Lance sighs and smiles, a spark of light returning to his eyes.

Allura clenches her hands into fists. Outside, snow begins to trickle down from the heavens. A Mamorian housewife told Allura the Black Lion, Mother of the Sky, gives dual gifts and curses to her children; snow, the most beautiful gift, the most tragic curse.

Why does it feel so much more like a curse now?

* * *

“Stop fidgeting.”

Keith waves Shiro's hands away, a frown etched into his features. “Stop telling me what to do-”

Shiro can only laugh. “You don't want your fiance to see you all ruffled and messy, do you?”

Keith's frown only grows. “I don't want him to see me at all.” He gestures to his outfit; gold silk draped over his figure, loose fitting to allow heaps of red fox fur to sit on his shoulders, trailing down to his hips. There's gold detailing everywhere, carefully carved into the thick leather belt wrapped around his waist. “This is ridiculous,” he huffs. The bells woven in his braid shake with the movement and somehow annoys Keith even more.

“Mother does have a sense of flair,” Shiro notes with no toxicity in his voice. Even he's dressed up, his normal armor traded with comfortable silks and furs. Nothing close to the grandeur of his half brother's, but beautiful still, more beautiful than anything he's worn as of late. His sword sits in a decorated sheath at his hip, nothing he would bring into battle with him; there is no place for beauty where he goes.

There's silk whispering against the tiled floors followed by Keith's yelp of surprise. “You've gone and messed up your braid,” a voice scolds behind Keith. “The bells are going to fall out.”

Keith's head is yanked backwards by slim, manicured fingers. Peeping behind Keith's head is a golden towered crown bobbing with movement. “Mother, I look like a decorated horse-”

“You look like a prince.” Keith's hair is loose only for a moment before a bright red ribbon is stitched back into his hair so tight it nearly stretches Keith's face. “You'll impress him.”

Keith opens his mouth to retort only to be scruffed at the back of his neck. He opts for mopping instead and stuffs his arms inside the sleeves of his deel.

His mother moves to the front of Keith and begins the process of fixing his clothes. It's strange, seeing them together; Keith's heart-shaped face and soft chin mirrored back in their mother, her own eyes baring the same shape as her son's. Though wrinkles litter his mother's face, Gerel is still beautiful in her red and silver deel, its silk material kissing the tiled floors of their palace. A golden sash is wrapped around her waist, short enough so she can ride if she wishes. Pearls and beads dangle down from her crown, brushing against the sides of her face and pressing against her forehead. It's amazing she can walk and keep the tiered crown on, much less have it balanced and straight. It's part of her, part of every royal woman in Mamora.

By the time she's done he can hear the whinnying of horses outside the great oak doors. Keith freezes, his eyes wide and brow shiny with sweat. Shiro clasps Keith's shoulder and gives his best big brother smile. “He'll love you,” he says.

Keith doesn't have time to point out he may not. They both know it's true, both know that forced mating can end in failure. Judging by the thick scent of fear in the air, he knows.

The doors open and a gust of snow assaults them. All three stand tall against the buffeting winds, none stepping back.

It's said when Altea was free it was a place of music and noise; bustling people coming to trade, a blend of new language and native spilling from the ports; music leaking from houses, burning in the streets. The people sang when in mourning, sang in happiness, and sang in neutrality.

Somehow, looking at the three Alteans, Shiro can see it all. The way the piercings on their long ears jangle their own tune, how they all move with a dancer's grace despite the foreign winds beating at their backs. They look strange in their deels. The Princess with her ebony skin and wide, blue eyes, has no piercings on her face; instead, two mother of pearl gauges are placed in her earlobes, the weight dragging. She has the most metal in her ears in places Shiro didn't even know could be pierced. It all means something, but their meanings have been lost with the country that bore it. They all have music in them, and Shiro wonders if he'll ever get to hear it before-

The one with orange hair and piercings in between his eyes is the first to speak. “Your Majesty!” He grins and steps forward, barely suppressing a shudder as the guards heave the doors shut. “It is my honor to introduce Princess Allura,” she steps forward, regal grace embedded in her being, “and Prince Lance.”

Lance steps forward, teeth chattering and lips almost blue. The light skips over his jewellery, sun against the ice, fleeting and warm if only for a moment. When Lance smiles the silver piercing on his chin is a steady moon, making his mouth wider, teeth whiter. His eyes aren't ethereal like his sister's, but something so uniquely human it aches. The color of the ocean, of the sky, of life. Shiro's heart stutters.

Gerel's mouth curls in disgust. Then she's stepping forward, the smile she wears not one of a khatun but of a mother. Guilt slivers into his gut without permission. “No need for formalities, Coran. You all are our most welcome guests.” She clasps Allura's hands, rubbing warmth back into her palms. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, my dear.”

Allura's smile is well practiced. “And it is a pleasure to have finally met you, khatun-”

Gerel snorts, friendly and warm. “My name will suffice.”

“Gerel,” Allura rectifies. “Forgive me. Are these your sons?”

Gerel's smile is real, this time. “They are.” She gestures for Keith, and after a moment's hesitation, he steps forward, the bells in his hair softly announcing his arrival. “Here is our jinong. My youngest, Keith.”

While Allura's face stays pleasant, Lance tilts his head. “Jin-jin what?”

Keith frowns. “Heir apparent,” he clarifies. “I'll rule when my mother steps down.” Sometimes, it's easy to forget Keith hasn't traveled the way Shiro has; he doesn't know that there are other ways of the world.

Lance looks to Shiro and opens his mouth to ask another question when Gerel cuts him off. “You must be freezing. Come, the journey was hard on all of you. I'm sure you'll enjoy a meal, yes?” Lance perks up and Gerel laughs. “Let me show you to where we'll be eating.”

Shiro makes sure to maintain a distance, leading from the back. His brother does his duty as heir apparent, his mother her duty as queen. And my duty as bastard is never to be seen.

He's content with this. He is seen as a commander, seen as a symbol of respect on the battlefield and in war rooms. He doesn't need to be seen as one in dining halls and throne rooms.

This is a private dining room, the one that the royal family would eat with special guests or simply with one another. Shiro himself has never been here alone, only on occasion when he was deemed fit to be seen as family by the King. When he was a pup the grandeur of it amazed him; the way the sun streamed down the skylight, the abundance of pillows and mouth-watering food. Now he sees it as excessive and a safety concern.

He sits cross-legged on his mother's left, Lance sitting across from him. Shiro expects the sheer amount of food to distract him but he's sharp, this one. Shiro can tell he has a question by the way he's staring at Shiro, like he's withholding something precious and he'll do anything to get it.

"How was your trip, Allura? It must have been difficult." Gerel tilts her head as though she truly cares.

Allura smiles that well practised, polite smile. "It was trying at times, but worth it to see your country. It's very unlike Altea."

"It must have been warmer there, yes? No need for furs."

Lance laughs. "During the summers hardly anyone actually wore a shirt much less furs. How is this your spring?"

Keith's pushing the food around on his plate to have something to look at other than Lance. "Our winters are worse. Many farmers die during the coldest months, and if the famine is bad enough even we begin to feel it. It doesn't get better than this, so you should get used to it."

Shiro sends Keith a glare. _"But_ our summers are kinder," he says. He sighs and smooths out his face before looking back at Lance. "Not so much snow. We have festivals through all seasons as well."

Lance's screwed up face lights up. "Do they have music?"

"Throat singing," Keith clarifies. "Probably different than Altean singing."

Lance's face screws back up. He mutters something probably in Altean and gains a glare from Allura.

Suddenly Shiro's grateful, if only a little, that he was barred from nobility dinners and meetings like this. None would involve the commander, so he would be free to be _anywhere_ but a room swimming with hormones and ripe awkwardness. _And the Khaan would not allow me there,_ he reminds himself. A small thing to thank him for.

"Perhaps," Gerel says over her tea, "we can find an Altean performer. I'm sure my sons would love to see-"

"The performers were the first to go after the soldiers," Lance says. He won't look at them, just stares at his plate. Allura clasps his hand.

"Why would Zarkon go for the performers rather than you?" Shiro wonders outloud.

Lance cocks an eyebrow. "Morale. He knew how important music was to our people. Morale isn't just for soldiers, handsome."

Keith chokes on his tea and coughs into his arm while Shiro tries his very best to get rid of the blood rushing to his face. He clears his throat. "Get rid of morale and get rid of artists who were most likely to create propaganda?" he nods. "Smart. Cruel, but smart."

"Cruel," Allura growls, "is the only word for it." Her glare cuts through the air and into Shiro. Shiro holds his head up that much higher and forces his hackles from rising.

Lance turns his hand to twine his fingers with his sister's. _Always touching_ , Shiro notes. He sighs. "He killed the Paladins first, though, before any of that. Picked them off one by one." He tilts his head, curious. "Would you have done the same, commander?"

Keith snarls, lips pulled back over teeth. "Shiro wouldn't do that in the first place!" He's clutching his chopsticks with deadly force while Gerel nearly breaks her cup in two.

Lance's smile turns catlike. "Ah. So your brother has a name." Keith flushes.

Gerel had only spoken of Lance in fleeting moments; of his apparent beauty and naive nature, and of course, his status as an omega. His status is the most important, what was stressed over and over again. _An omega prince._ Something that has never happened in Mamora history was sitting across from him, a smile on his lips glittering like the sun. She never mentioned this silvered tongue. _What do those eyes see?_   he wonders. He swallows hard.

Luckily his mother speaks up for him. "Apologies, Prince-"

"Lance," he corrects. "Lance is fine."

Gerel's smile is tight. " _Lance._ My apologies." He can hear her wooden cup creak under pressure. If Lance notices he doesn't show it, just keeps that smile on his face. "This is my oldest son, Takashi Shirogane."

"Shiro is fine," Shiro interjects. Gerel waves a hand at him.

"He is the commander of our armies, as you correctly... _guessed_."

Lance tilts his head like a cat, curious. "If he's your oldest then why isn't he the heir apparent?" he asks.

"I'm a bastard." He says it calmly and simply; he ran out of shame years ago.

Lance's brows furrow. "Bas- what?" he turns to Allura and murmurs something in Altean.

Allura sighs and rubs the bridge of her nose. Before she can speak the orange one, Coran, launches into a lengthy explanation in Altean. Shiro can hear Keith's teeth grinding, see his mother's nostrils flaring without the scrutiny of their guests.

"Wait- so- I don't-" Lance doesn't look anymore enlightened. "Just because he has a different father-"

"Altea does not have the concept of bastards," Allura quickly clarifies. "Anyone of royal blood is up for the throne in order of age." She waves her hand. "Culture changes, as you understand, are...inevitable."

He doesn't have to look at his mother to know her smile is waning. A pang of sympathy runs through him; he's on the battlefield most days, teaching boys how to hack through men bigger and more skilled than them; he gets beaten down, stabbed, and threatened severely on a good day. And yet, the answer to many of his problems is simple; kill the offender, ride back home.

His mother has no sword but her wits, no shield but her tongue. There is no blood on her hands, and there can't be if she wants to lead Mamora into an age of isolationism away from Galra. It is not her hands that kill. Only his, and her mind to guide him.

His mother stands abruptly, her patience for the foreigners ran out. Still, her smile is on her face, tired and wane. "I am sure you both are tired. The journey was long, and there is a day ahead of you in the morning."

Keith's brow furrows and looks at Shiro in askance. He smiles. "Why don't you bring Lance, Allura, and Coran to their quarters? The ones we showed you earlier today?"

Keith opens and closes his mouth several times before getting the hint. _Go impress him_ , Shiro's eyes say.

 _Go fuck yourself,_ Keith's eyes reply.

Still, Keith huffs and stands up and starts down the hall. The three foreigners have to practically stumble over their sitting pillows to catch up.

He waits until the ringing of Keith's bells dies and the doors are slid closed to turn to his mother. The bags are more prominent on her face, now, and when she speaks it's not without an air of exhaustion. "I wish you would allow me to naturalize you, Takashi."

He shrugs one shoulder. "I have gotten to my station without your name. I will continue just fine without it."

She frowns but knows it's a lost cause; it's not the first time she's brought this up. Ever since her husband died it's been on the forefront of her mind, and each time, she is only met with a denial. She reaches up and brushes his white forelock, his mark of parental sin till death. "It will be good," she says, "to have them out."

It's his turn to frown. "I'm not so certain. The Galra aren't known for keeping their word, mother. We have no way of knowing if they'll truly keep their promise once they have what they want."

"You are so skeptical of everything, Takashi." She's still petting his hair, fondness deep in her ash colored eyes. "I am willing to take this chance for Mamora. For you. For Keith."

Is there nothing you wouldn't do for us? he wants to ask. He says instead, "And what if they do not keep their promise? What if we allow Galra into our lands and they take what is ours and what is Altea's and we have nothing left?"

"That will not happen."

"But you don't _know-_ "

She stops petting his hair to cup his face. "If you will not trust Zarkon then trust me as your khatun." She smiles at him, genuine and soft. "As your mother."

He swallows. "He will not last," he says quietly. "The boy."

He knows Gerel knows. A small part of him expects maternal grief, guilt, _anything._ But her hands do not slow as they make their way back to Shiro's hair, her eyes trained on his. Gray reflecting gray. "I see how you looked at him." She touches the white of his hair, the mark of his father. "You are so much like your father. You have his big heart, you know." She reaches up and traces the scar on his nose, her smile falling. "Do not die a fool as he did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> step one: dont make shiro fall in love at first sight  
> failed step one


	3. blood lines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the warning for "graphic violence" comes into play here so be careful!

If Lance had listened during etiquette classes, he'd know how vastly _inappropriate_ it is to flirt with someone on the job. He would've remembered to allow the workers to work, the guards to guard, and

went on with his prince-ly life like a good pup.

As it were, he did not remember one lecture from etiquette class.

“So, do you come here often?” Classic. The Mamora guard doesn't move, doesn't even glance at him. “Or, _guard_ here often?” Not even a smile.

Lance woke up early, before the sun peeked out behind the mountains. It turns out Mamora prides itself in labyrinths for castles; he's gotten lost three times, and each time there was no one there to help. No one but dust motes, nothing but starlight dying on the wooden floors.

Expect for here. In one, solitary hallway he found completely by accident, there is a single lone guard standing straight-backed in front of a dark sliding door, a sword by his side. Prepared to kill whoever trespasses, because that's what Mamorians _do,_ apparently. Lance pushes himself off the wall and stands in front of him; it only takes one sniff to know he's an alpha, not a particularly strong one, but not weak either. _Weird. Why does this need an alpha's protection?_

He tilts his head. “Nice sword. Very...” He makes hand motions. “Pointy.”

The alpha's eyes flit down to his sword and then back to Lance, looking at him for the first time in an hour. Lance graces him with his finest, most handsome smile. He even gifts him with a _wink._ “Is that room empty?” The guard's nose wrinkles in confusion. “Unless you wanna, you know, ravish me in the hallway. I'm good with that.”

The guard's cheeks flood with color. “That- the room- is- it's-” he clears his throat, tries to save himself. “ _Off limits,_ omega.”

“The name's Lance, but you can call me yours if you really wanna, handsome.” The guard scoffs and looks resolutely at something very interesting above Lance's head. “Hey! Over here, gorgeous, handsome, strong alpha.” He takes a chance and steps forward, leaning in enough to smell the iron on the guard's clothes, the sweat on his brow. The air surrounding him is covered in the scent of alpha, and now, hopefully, the scent of omega. The guard stiffens and looks at him. “Would anyone really be mad if we had a romp in the room? C'mon, there's no one here. I won't tell, promise.”

“We cannot _romp_ in the khatun's study, _teneg._ I do not expect you to understand the importance of such a room-”

“A study? Really? Why wouldn't I-”

“Because your kind does not _read.”_

Lance blinks. Blinks again, takes a step back, and looks at the guard before his stomach bursts open with laughter. “My- my kind- oh my- holy fuck.”

“The Mothers forbid it-”

“You know what the Mothers are spelling out for me, right now, above your knob sized head? A-S-S-H-O-L-E.” Lance wipes a tear from his eye and, honestly, laughs even louder once the alpha starts snarling. He laughs his way to Allura's room, too, finding her by scent; sea salt in a world of steel.

She's in the bathroom so he sits on her bed, wiping his eyes. Well, at least he knows that the alphas here are assholes. And that the only protected room in the castle is, currently, his lovely hostess' study. _Must be very important,_ he muses. He lays back and fiddles with a blanket; gold, the color of royalty here in Mamora. Everything's bathed in it; curtains of gold, rugs of ruby red, even the stallions have traces of the colors braided in their manes. The horses are everywhere here; in the courtyard, on the walls, paintings, even stitched into the curtains draping Allura's bed. There are more horses than omegas in the household, and the realization sends a shiver down his spine. _The Mothers do not allow it._

Allura's bathroom door slides open. Her hair is down, tickling the underside of her hips; though her hair is in complete and utter disarray her face is impeccable, the foreign robes a blemish on dark skin. _We are not made to be here._ “Here,” he calls, “let me make you presentable, Lulu.”

Allura snorts and plops down on the bed. Outside she is the Princess of Altea, beautiful and perfect in all ways; she walks on water, her farts smell of rainbows, and if you look closely you can actually see the meaning of life etched in those Northern lights eyes of hers. But here, she's his big sister who snorts when she laughs and doesn't know how to do her hair for shit.

He starts untangling her glacier hair. “You know, a guard told me omegas aren't allowed to read here. The Mothers say it's not allowed.”

Allura hums. “They do prize physical capability above all else.”

He remembers the lean frame of Keith, built for speed, and the powerhouse of a brother looming above them all. Even the mother, with filed down claws and delicate chin, knows how to ride a horse better than both Allura and Lance put together. “Yeah, but reading? Seriously? Didn't you notice I'm the only omega in the castle?”

“Perhaps there are some in the kitchens, or amongst the nightly staff, brother.”

“You make me sound like a whispering housewife, Lu. Not appreciating it.”

“Lance the Prince of Altea, whispering housewife in his spare time. A beautiful title.”

“Wow, look at that, still not appreciating it.” Allura laughs and Lance can't help but laugh too. “You're evil.”

They lapse into silence, the only sound the whispering of Allura's hair as he sets it into an intricate braid away from her face. When he was little, he used to envy her hair; white as starlight, their mother used to say, just like father. He got stuck with coconut shell hair. It wasn't until he was older and his mother's hair began to fade to gray that he appreciated it; his last gift from his mother, the one no merchant can take away.

He tugs on her hair. “Done and done, Princess of the seas.” Allura stands up and takes a look in the mirror, marvelling at his handiwork. “Perfect, ain't it?”

“ _Acceptable.”_ Lance pouts and Allura laughs. She closes the distance and presses a ruby red kiss on his forehead. “Thank you, _kaikunan.”_

Lance smiles; their language is even more beautiful now that they're surrounded by a foreign language. Even though the two of them are fluent in Mamorian (except for curse words, apparently, which he's going to have to change) it's still not _right._ None of it is. “I can't wait to go home.”

 

Allura's smile falters. Slowly she stands, brushing a hand over his forehead, and a look for remorse flashes across her face so fast he almost misses it. “And home cannot wait to have you back, Lance.”

So why does she seem so sad?

He's about to ask when Allura pulls him up and straightens his outfit. “Remember to be nicer to the sons today, Lance.”

Lance snorts. “I was only teasing them-”

“The bastard's face was so red he looked like a tomato. I thought you killed him, Lance.”

Lance laughs. “He's cute, isn't he? Especially when he's red. Maybe he gets red all over when he blushes-”

“ _Lance!”_ She smacks his arm but even she can't suppress a giggle. “We must act proper. Set a good image.”

He lapses into an easy, sleazy grin. “Me? I'm _always_ proper.”

It takes them a bit but with the help of a guard (who stays very much away from Lance) they find themselves in a room completely made of glass.

It's round, the ceiling a rotunda covered in last night's snowfall. It glows here, makes the polished table glimmer, like sunrise on the tide. The light flits and bounces off of porcelain cups and teapots, making them glaciers in their own right, floating. It's almost enough to ignore the cold.

_Almost._

See, the pretty thing about glass is that it helps you see the wonders of the world. Unfortunately, it barely does anything against the _cold_ of it. Lance scowls and stuffs his hands in his lent furs while Allura shows no signs of being uncomfortable at all. She might as well be sunbathing.

Gerel and her sons rise. They're less formal than the other day; Gerel has opted out of her cake hat and instead chosen a piece of mostly beads, red and purple alternating all the way down her cheeks and onto her chest. The sons are clad in fur and leather, though Keith's deel is richer, more finely decorated. “My guests,” she croons. “I trust you all slept well?”

Allura bows before responding. “We did. The rooms you offered us are most beautiful; your generosity is boundless, it seems.”

Lance stifles a snort. It's worth it to see Gerel puff out her chest like an exotic bird. “It is the least I can do to welcome you and your family, Allura. Please, sit.”

Apparently, the Mamorians all eat meat, meat, and more meat. It's good, and the tea matches perfectly with the meal, but he just wishes for fish, honestly. “Is there an agenda today, Gerel?” Allura asks.

Lance perks up. “Oh, there most certainly is. For me, at least.” He takes a sip of scalding tea before flashing his best smile. “I want to go explore your city.”

Gerel raises her eyebrows. “Our city is beautiful. I do not blame you for wanting to see it. The guards will be more than happy-”

“Oh, I don't need guards.” He ignores the look he gets from Allura. “It's more fun to explore solo, honestly. I'll be back whenever you need.”

It's Keith that snorts. “Really? Your plan is to wander a foreign city alone, with no protection and no guidance?”

Lance bristles. “Uh, yeah, that's my plan, _Mullet_.” Allura jabs an elbow into his gut. He can't have people interfering with what he needs to find in the city; guards won't go to where he wants to go. If they won't let him _read_ they probably won't let him wander into the slums. “Got a problem with that?”

“Yeah, actually-”

“ _Perhaps,”_ Shiro interrupts. “If you do not feel comfortable around guards, it is best for Keith and me to accompany you.”

Lance swallows and forces a smile. “And take you two away from your important royal duties?”

Shiro tilts his head like a confused pup before offering a smile. “Well, protecting and guiding a Prince would classify as a _royal duty._ ”

Cheeky asshole. Keith scowls and gives the impression that he would rather do literally anything else. Before he can stress how much he doesn't need _protecting_ Allura claps her hands. “That sounds perfect! Quality time between you all, yes?”

Gerel smiles, pleased. “My sons will show you the best our city has to offer. You will want for nothing, I assure you.”

Allura pinches his thigh until he smiles back. _Fuck._

* * *

 

Lance learns that the houses are much like Gerel's crowns; tiered and proud, reaching to the heavens with enthusiasm. They're all red with decorations of gold, some with iron wrought fences bearing their family's symbol; a bleeding rose sitting on the spike of a fence, a horse with no rider planted in the garden. If he breathes deep enough he swears he can smell the privilege, the stink of worthiness heavy in the air.

Even the streets are lined with gold, shimmering like sunset under his feet. It's all meant to appease him, to satisfy him, even to impress, but he knows better. _Look to see how the rest of them live,_ his father's voice says, _then you will know the heart of their ruler._

But just where would the rest of them be?

A gaggle of alphas shuffle their way through, cheeks pink and stinking severely of sex. _Interesting._ “And where would those gentlemen be coming from?”

Keith glances at them and furrows his brow. “A brothel, probably. There's a lot here.”

Lance tilts his head. All he sees are rows of blood red houses; where would the ladies be, exactly? Keith frowns. “Do you not know what a brothel is?”

Lance bristles. _If he doesn't topple over dead now he'll wish he had._ “I know what a brothel is, Mullet.”

“Why do you keep calling me that-”

“Because that's what you are-”

“I'm not a _hairstyle-”_

“It's the only thing notable of you, assho-”

Shiro honest to Mothers claps to shut them up. “Boys.” _What is he, a school teacher?_ “Behave.”

Lance heaves his most dramatic sigh just to annoy Keith. “But I want to know so much more about your beautiful culture!” He bats his eyelashes. “Will you tell me, oh brave one?”

Shiro stumbles on a golden brick and looks at him with wide eyes. “Um-” he clears his throat. “Of course. The uh- the brothels, you wanted to know about?” Lance nods, smiling his best smile. Shiro points eastward. “They're all clustered around there. They're pink instead of red.”

Lance frowns. “Pink? Why pink?”

“It's the colour of omegas, Lance.” Keith looks at him like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Lance's frown deepens. “Since when are colours assigned to endotypes?”

“Since forever. Now let's go get this show over with.”

They enter a wide building, round instead of square. They, of course, sit in the front, right by the stage. Incense clog every pore; artificial smells of rose make Lance's nose itch. Shiro notices and laughs. “It's so we can't smell each other, to get more immersed in the show.”

“Or to make you sneeze loud enough to distract everyone from the bad acting,” Lance grumbles. Both brothers give him a pointed glare and all Lance can do is smile, because, really, they couldn't have made annoying them any easier. They're half brothers, Lance knows, but their scowl and glare are the same. _Too bad one's a dick and one's not._

Somewhere, the fires are extinguished, leaving the audience in relative darkness. Only the barest of flickers hidden in the walls are there, to remind them they're not asleep.

The Mamora are a fighting people, a horse riding people. They're certainly not a performing people, if the looks of their costumes are any indication.

An actor lumbers out, dressed in black and white armour and donning a pitch black lion mask. It's crude and violent, teeth bared and eyes wild. In Altea, the Mothers are portrayed as beautiful. Here, they're monsters. _Beasts worshipping greater monsters._

Lance barely pays attention. The exits are unmanned, the guards stationed in the row in front and behind them. Apparently, the brothers are so great they barely need any protection at all; Lance counts four “disguised” guards engrossed in the play. Lance shifts and feels a hand press down on his thigh, pushing him back into his seat.

“Are you enjoying the show?” Shiro whispers in his ear.

He should've known Shiro would be watching when the guards weren't. Lance smiles and leans in, brushing his nose against the rise of Shiro's cheek. “I would much rather enjoy the show you put on in bed, commander.” He puts his own hand down on Shiro's thigh and feels it tense.

Immediately Shiro reels back, the hand on Lance's leg falling away. Lance grins all shark teeth and jumps to his feet and sprints. The shouts of the guards are lost to the cheering of the audience, his scent stolen by incense.

Lance can't help but laugh as he runs; he didn't plan on the incense, but he knows it'll linger, knows his scent will be lost in the crowds for some time. Keith's fast, but Lance knows the alleyways, knows how to follow men who are looking for one thing and one thing only. He stumbles through narrow passageways between houses, and soon he's in front of four squat, blushing houses overlooking a stream.

The scent of sex is overwhelming even from the street. It's almost as bad as the theater; sweat, musk, and the sharp tang of blood waft through open windows. He doesn't have to listen closely to hear the grunts and squealing moans. _Do I know what a brothel is._ Lance snorts. _That'll show him._

Lance grabs the arm of a sex pleased alpha. “Excuse me.” He blinks over in a daze and Lance flashes his best, most innocent smile reserved for special occasions. “Which one of these is the best?”

The alpha grins and points a chubby finger to the house in the middle. “That one,” he slurs. “Best whores in all of Mamora, swear on my mother's grave.”

Right. Apparently, people swear on their mother's grave for...sex? Lance grits his teeth and smiles. “Thank you, sir.” Sir and not _guy who doesn't deserve a mom._

Looking at it now, he can see the difference; the pink is darker, more like coral than blush, the shutters gilded silver like a bird's cage. There's more people ambling about too. _Rose Mare,_ the sign reads. _Cute play on words._

Lance fixes up his ridiculous outfit, licks his eyebrows straight, and struts in like he knows what he's doing. Which he doesn't, for the record, but he'll figure it out like always.

He pushes his way in and is immediately hit with the stench of not one, but hundreds of heats. Heats pouring out of every omega in the building, littering the air, tickling his pheromones. He covers his nose and frowns. He always hated the sickly sweet smell of a heat, but that's probably because he's reminded of his own heats and honestly, who wants to remember those?

The woman at the front desk is giving him a _look_ so he struts his way over there and smiles. “Hey there. Name's Lance.”

The woman tilts her head. She's wearing silks that do nothing against the cold, her hair carefully braided against the back of her head and fastened with silver ribbons. “You're not one of my omegas.”

Ah. The owner then. “No, I'm not. I'm a customer.”

She laughs. “An omega customer? Don't believe I've heard that one before.”

“What can I say? I like surprising people.” He winks and flushes when she laughs. He's here for one specific purpose but he can't help but ask, “Why are there only omegas working here?”

The woman's pretty pink lips turn downward. “Oh, pup. You're not from around here, are you?” Before Lance can answer she smiles again. “But you do have a lot of coin, don't you, sweet thing? Who can I get for you?”

 _That was weird._ “Your best omega, please. One that doesn't mind walking outside your pearly gates.”

She arches a thin brow. “You better be paying a pretty price for that, love.”

Lance pulls out a pouch of gold and plops it on the counter. “I am! Not as pretty as me, of course, but I think it's worthy of a second date at least.”

Her laugh is like bell chimes, but Lance knows it's practised, well rehearsed and perfected. Like his own laugh, he guesses. “I'll get you Nyma, then.” She plucks the pouch and walks away, the silks of her deel floating behind her like birds.

And then this _Nyma_ walks in, and if Lance wasn't on a mission, he'd ask her for a room right then and there. Her ink black hair is pulled to the side of her head in pigtails trailing down down down to her knees; pretty almond eyes are lined with black khol and purple paint. Even her lips are colourful, a bright yellow that matches the tone of her pale skin. When she smiles her teeth are straight and perfect.

“Wow.”

Nyma laughs. This one's laugh is attuned to songbirds, the way they chirp in the early mornings. Lance wonders for a moment if they all practice their laughs, if they get constructive criticism from the other girls. _No, not that one. That one won't give a man a boner. Try imitating birds. Birds are sexy._

Lance, being the gentleman he is, offers her his arm and she gladly takes it, smiling that practised smile. “Name's Lance.”

“Lance.” The name is pretty on her tongue. “Very nice name. Foreign, though.”

“You know, I've been getting that a lot. Is it my exotic beauty that gives it away?”

Nyma laughs again. “No, it's your wide eyes.” She points to them with her free hand. “Always looking, aren't you, pup?”

“Well, that is how you see things. By looking. Like how I see you're absolutely gorgeous, Nyma.” He leads her out of the brothel and into the streets, ignoring the looks from passerbys. “And I bet you're smart, too, aren't you? Can you tell me why all the brothels have only omegas? That's weird, isn't it?”

Nyma's pretty face scrunches up. “What other jobs can omegas have? We're not allowed to work.”

Lance can almost see the palace. “What do you mean we're not allowed to work?”

Nyma sighs and for once her face shows signs that she is, in fact, not a goddess but a human. She looks irritated, like explaining why water is wet and air is invisible to a pup. “Omegas are not permitted to work. Our choices are brothels or running away. But the chances of getting out of Mamora a free omega are...slim. Most end up back in brothels anyway. Or worse.”

“Worse?” They're a street down from the gates now, with the guards straight-backed and eyes roaming the crowds for threats.

“This isn't very attractive conversation-”

“I want to know.” Lance stops and turns to face her fully. He holds her hands, pushes out his bottom lip. “Please.”

Nyma considers him for a long moment. “It is the brothels or breeding farms. They're illegal, but people don't care much. As long as it brings in money.”

“And the crown- the crown allows this?”

Nyma shrugs a bony shoulder. “As I said, it brings in money. People don't care as long as they have coin in their hands. Brothels, breeding farms, or slitting your own throat. That is the lot of omegas here.” Nyma tilts her head. “You are lucky, foreigner. Allowed to be a pretty prince despite it all.”

It hurts to swallow down bile but Lance does it anyway, lets it burn the inside of his throat, of his mouth. “I will speak to the khatun-”

Nyma laughs. “Enough with this. Where are you taking me, little prince?”

Lance forces a smile. “My beautiful Nyma. Have you ever been inside a castle?”

* * *

 

It's the same asshole from this morning guarding the study. His back is straight but his eyes are glazed over, looking at his shoes. Lance smiles. _Too fucking easy._ “That is the man you want me to sleep with?” Her nose is wrinkled like she tasted something gross. “Is this a special occasion, prince?”

“Well, you don't have to _sleep_ with him. Just...get him distracted. Get him away from the door.”

Nyma grits her teeth. “This is worth more than you paid me for.” She turns to him. “I want something more.” When Lance reaches into his pockets she shakes her head, pigtails swaying with the movement. “No, not gold. I want someone. You are here, you can find out.” She pulls him in and looks him in the eye. This close he can see underneath the powdered white on her skin, see the hidden freckles, the humanity she tries to mask. “Find my love. Find my Rolo. Promise me you will try and I will do this for you.”

He doesn't mean to, but Lance remembers seeing his friends dragged away by Galra. He knows the ache of someone missing. “I will, Nyma. I promise.”

Nyma regards him for a long moment, looking into his eyes, trying to find reason for doubt. But she doesn't find any because Lance- Lance wants to try. He wants to do this for her. She nods. “The deal is made.”

She pulls a vial from the inside of her silks and pops the lid. It's that stench again, like candies left under the sun. “So that's how you convince the knot heads you're in heat?”

Nyma smiles, wicked and razor sharp. “They don't know the difference, really.” She presses it on the insides of her thighs and wrists and finally on her scent gland underneath her jaw. By the time she's finished she stinks of an omega in heat. She smiles again, practised this time. “Good luck, little pup.”

The guard's head snaps up the moment Nyma approaches. He can barely hear the conversation but the guard's eyes dilate and even from here he can smell his arousal. Gross, gross, and gross. And then poor, poor Nyma leads Mister Ugly and Rude away from the door, smiling over her shoulder at him like a blushing virgin who needs a strong, buff alpha for relief.

Lance slinks from the hallway and hurries over to the door. It's locked, of course, but Lance knows a thing or twelve about picking locks. It's all in the fingers, really, and Lance has very long ones. Allura compares them to twigs, and twigs are perfect for fondling locks and convincing them to open.

After a few moments, he hears a soft click and pulls the door open just wide enough to slip in. The room is round, pillows scattered about like Gerel left in a hurry. His first destination is the black wooden desk sitting proud underneath a skylight. The paper there is more scattered than the pillows, but it's easy to find what he's looking for.

Allura's neat handwriting. The cheap parchment she bartered a year ago that stunk of cigar smoke. He picks it up and shoves it in the insides of his deel. He's about to leave when he sees it; paper sticking out underneath ash in the fireplace.

Gently, he pulls the parchment loose. It's burnt in several places but not fully; just enough remains so he can see the writing, see who wrote it. As his eyes rove the brash letters dread fills his gut. _Fuck._

* * *

 

It takes an unacceptable amount of time for Allura to realize her brother is in her chambers.

She was in the bathroom, scrubbing herself clean; clean from the khatun's stares, from the jinong's questions, from the bastard's unveiled scepticism. There was no salt water here, no way to be properly clean, no way to be raw and angry and red like her eyes. Only this melted snow, cold and apathetic at her fingers.

That's what took her so long. She was drying her hair and changing back into her lent furs when she heard her brother sit down on the bed right outside her door. She grits her teeth. She'd heard what he had done at the opera; got up and ran, the idiot. The jinong was furious, his face so red she was afraid it'd burn right off; the bastard was quieter in his anger, jaw clenched and chin raised. For hours she had to talk to them, convince them he was okay, that they didn't need to send guard looking for him; he'd find more ways to hide. He'd always come back.

And now he was back. She was ready to barge into his room later tonight, but here he is, sitting on Allura's bed. “Lance?” his eyes don't move from what he's holding. Another step forward she sees it's a letter with her handwriting. _No._ “Where did you get those?”

Lance looks up; his eyes are red and his voice scratchy. “Our lady hostess should have better security in front of her fancy study. Took me only a second to get in.” He stands to his full height but doesn't move closer. “You've been planning this.”

Allura grits her teeth and raises her chin. “For the good of Altea, for the good of _our_ people.”

“See, here's the thing.” Lance is shaking now, the smell of anger coming off him in waves. “It says marriage, but not whose. Only when it'll happen.” He balls the letter in his fist, crinkling the cheap parchment.

“Lance,” she tries, “I was going to tell you-”

“When? Two days before it happened? One? The night before, the morning of?”

“I wouldn't do that! Please, Lance.” She steps forward and holds her brother's face. Are those her hands shaking or his cheeks? “I'm not doing this to hurt you-”

“So it's me,” he whispers. His shoulders start to tremble, eyes leaking tears. “ _I'm_ the one to stay in a foreign land, _I'm_ the one to be mated to a stranger, _I'm_ the one being sold. _Me._ ”

She gulps down a breath. “It's for the good of Altea, so our people can go home-”

“But not _me!”_ he screams. _“I'll_ never be home again!” He's breathing hard now, on the risk of hyperventilating, but his gaze never leaves hers.

“You can always come home-”

“As a Mamorian consort. Not as me. You- how could you? You _sold_ me.”

“No, please-”

“You did! You sold me for- for a _fleet_? You didn't even ask. You just- put me in a carriage and- Goddesses, how _could you?_ ” He grabs her wrists and flings her hands off his face. His sobs are wracking his body, hunching him over, pressing his chin to his chest. He holds himself as though that could keep him together. When she steps forward to hold him he steps backwards, squeezing his eyes shut.

She needs to salvage this. To make him _understand_. She raises her chin and looks at his hunched, shaking figure; so small, so vulnerable. “Lance.” Her voice cracks without her say so. “Lance,” she tries again, more assured. “Look at me.” After what feels like years he drags his gaze up, fire blazing in deep blue. _There he is._ “I can't keep you safe anymore.”

That gets him to stop crying; he sneers, ugly and rude. “We're a floating fortress out at sea-”

“A crumbling ship with barely any crew,” she corrects. She knows he's realized it before, he's a bright boy. The wood is rotting in some places, the figurehead of their mother beaten unrecognizable by the waves. Their sails, once a bright purple, are now the color of a faded bruise, withering out of sight and memory like the father who made them.

The crew given to them were loyal enough for the first year, but one after another they disappeared at ports, off to live their own lives, whether out of fear of being caught by Galra ships or something else, she did not know. What she did know was that her, Coran, and Lance had to help man the ship each day. What she did know was that her mother's jewellery was gone, now, sold off to the highest bidder for food and supplies. And when she went to sleep, black ships cutting through mist rise from the bowels of her heart, out for the only person she has left.

“Our defences are outdated. The Galra are on their way; there's only so many places we can hide. But here you're safe, Lance. Please-” her voice breaks and it's only now she realizes how badly she's shaking, how shattered her voice is in her throat. “You're all I have left. If I lost you...” _I would go mad,_ she knows. Scour the waters for him, raid towns and villages alike; she wouldn't stop, not even for a moment, not until they found his body broken on the shore.

Lance laughs, breaking her from her thoughts. “You think they'll keep me safe?” He bends down and snatches a letter off the floor and shoves it at her.

“What's this?” The paper is burnt on the edges, black spots littering its underside, and despite this she can tell it's expensive, far better than the ones she used.

The writing is harsh and abrasive, unused to writing in Mamorian; the wording is short and to the point. At the bottom is the violet and ebony seal that haunts her dreams, the sigil burnt into her memory, into her homeland, into her _father._ Her fingers trace it, and trace the signature, written from the man's own hand.

“I guess I will be going home.” His voice is distant, whispered across thousands of seas. “But not with you. Not with Keith. But with Zarkon when he comes to collect me.”

Everything burns; her hands, her fingertips, her palms, her eyes, but not with tears. _I trusted her._ She trusted the khatun with her most precious thing, with her only thing; her heart, her soul, her blood, _I trusted her._ When she speaks her voice is detached from her body. “I will not allow it. I refuse.”

She finally tears her eyes from the paper. Lance has stopped crying and is staring at her, the expression on his face unreadable. “You saw what the letter said. The soldiers are here in the castle. Even if we fled now we won't get to the ship 'till two weeks time, and even then, Allura, they know this land better than we do. They'll find us.”

She knows all of this; knows it is a lost cause to run, knows that she cannot find and kill every soldier. But she recognizes only one thing; the agreement was signed with the khatun's signature, no one else's. It is only her who allows this. “We will not run, Lance. Not ever again.”

And with that she brushes past her brother and out of the room, ignoring the shouts behind her. She only stops to order him to stay in her room; lock the doors, stay with a weapon, and wait. Allura doesn't stop to see if he agrees- she has a khatun to speak to.

* * *

 

There's two soldiers outside the khatun's door, both taller than any Mamorian Allura has seen. Towering over her and stinking distinctly of alpha prime and something else; _ash fall_. Their eyes are covered by the shadows of their helmets but briefly, she thinks she can see gold glimmer from the gloom.

“I need to speak to the khatun,” she says.

“No.” He says it like he has the right to deny her anything.

Allura grits her teeth. “I do not need permission. I need the khatun. Move aside-

“We do not listen to children.” His words cut through the air like a sword. The guard next to him places a hand on the hilt of his sword; short and in undecorated leather.

She swallows. “What kind of sword is that?”

“A sword that cuts little girls to pieces if they do not _go away._ ”

Allura is used to the threats, to the taunts, to all of it. And she is used to that sword. The body is short, used on the battlefield. The pommel, smooth with sweat and use, is black as night, twinkling in the candlelight. _A sword that cuts little girls to pieces._

The door swings open, revealing a confused khatun. There's a beat where this is all that's on her face, but she's quick to smother the reaction with motherly concern, her face contorting with it. “Princess?” she inquires with a tilt of her head. “Is everything all right?”

Her mouth is dry, her gums burning with the need to release fangs. She does not need to fake the smell of fear, of despair. _I probably stink of it._ “No. Everything is not all right, my khatun.”

There's a moment of hesitation before a smile slips into place, the khatun stepping aside. “We will make it all right, my dear. Come inside.”

It's sickening how hse sounds so much like her own mother. The pet names are blackened, now, charred with betrayal and lies. It burns her from the inside out.

She steps inside and it's only now she realizes how late it is. The khatun is barefoot, pedicured toes pressing softly into a bearskin rug. Her hair is braided into a circle at the back of her skull, pinned neatly for sleep and still wet from a bath. Her clothes are less heavy than Allura's but still warm, white fox fur peeking out underneath her sleeves. They're sleeping clothes, ones Allura should be wearing. Instead, she wears formal attire, stiff and awkward fitting.

The khatun closes the door behind Allura, locking it with a soft click. _To keep the guards out, or to keep me in?_ She wonders. “Apologies,” she starts, “but I must ask. Are those guards new, my khatun?”

The khatun's back stiffens. “New?” she echoes.

Allura needs guilt. A confession. “Their accents are...harsh. Very sharp.”

Gerel relaxes and smiles over her shoulder. “Excellent ear, Allura. They're from higher in the mountains. They're mostly still nomadic. Have you heard of our hawk trainers, by chance? They work with the hawks, and they're very skilled.”

“We encountered a few our way up here.” And all had slow, round accents; nothing like the clipped, sharp knives of the guards outside. And they were shorter there, too, not as tall as the bastard, but having the same height as Keith. Keith, who must have stood up to the guard's chest. She lets the implications sit in the air. She knows.

Gerel takes Allura by the hand and leads her into the sitting room, closing yet another door behind them with her free hand.

Everything about the khatun's sitting room is stuffy, from the plush couch she sits on to the walls smothered in furs and tapestries. Even the floor is cluttered with furs, all from various animals. The windows are hidden by thick drapes, the only light coming from a fire dancing in the corner.

A cup of tea is pressed into her hands. The wood is hot to the touch, steam floating up to her nose and eyes. “I know how hot you like your tea.” The khatun smiles down at her. “What seems to be the matter, Princess?”

“I'm here to speak of my brother-”

“As you should.” The smile disappears the moment she sits down across Allura. “The spectacle he did today at the show is unacceptable.”

“I apologize for that, your Majesty-”

The khatun waves her hand. “No need for pleasantries, Allura. Such things bore me.”

“Of course, Gerel. As I was saying; I'm sorry for his behaviour. He's young still-”

“That's no excuse. Did you know he brought a prostitute in the castle? Went off to the dirtier areas of the city, no doubt, and picked himself a whore.”

Allura forces down a smile. _So that's how he got in the study._ “While I understand that is...problematic, I was under the assumption such things were allowed in Mamoria.”

“What is allowed is what I say is allowed. Your brother-”

“Lance. His name is Lance, Gerel.”

“ _Lance.”_ She says it slowly, tossing and turning the name in her mouth before wrinkling her nose in distaste. _“_ Lance must learn how to be a proper mate; I will not have my son married to an omega who cannot appease his alpha.”

The wooden cup creaks under her hands. _What does it matter? Alpha, omega, beta- a good man is a good man._ But apparently here it's all that matters. “He will learn,” she assures. “Lance is a fast learner. Your son will have a good husband.”

Gerel nods, seemingly appeased. Allura is struck with how _silent_ the room is; though it is night there should be the shuffling of guards outside her door, whispers of servant's feet running across cobbled floors. “Your furs,” she asks, “do they keep out the sound?”

Gerel looks surprised and sets her cup down. “I'm amazed you noticed. They're for keeping in the warmth and the sound. Servants and guards all have very curious ears, Allura.”

“They keep in the sound,” she echoes. Just how cold does it get here? It's only spring and she's half certain her toes are frozen in her slippers, furs be damned. “I'm worried about Lance. It's so cold here, and it's hardly even fall. In Altea the only cold was from the sea, and even then...”

Suddenly Gerel's hands are on Allura's, curled around her steaming cup of tea. They're smooth, Allura notes; wrinkly and soft. When she touches her fingers she feels no callouses, only plush finger-pads and filed claws. “My dear,” Gerel coos, “we will take care of your brother, I assure you. He will want for nothing. My Keith will keep him safe, I promise.”

“Safe?” Does Lance even remember what safe is? Does Allura? It's hard to look at this woman and not see her mother, the one who died keeping them safe. This woman would not do that. This woman would rather die than see Lance _safe_. “Even from the Galra?”

Gerel squeezes her hands. “We are ways away from the Galra, darling. Their lands are all oceanfronts and islands. They're not suited for the cold of Mamora.”

And Allura may be young, but she's not stupid. While Mamora is a warrior race they're seen as primitive next to the Galra tacticians; Mamora has fire and spirit, an animalistic fury that fuels their movements in battle. Galra is calculated. The Galra empire has stood longer than the Mamorians have been settled in their capital, and Gerel knows this. “I saw them slaughter my people,” she says slowly. “Civilians, but our army, too. They did it...” Like it was nothing. Like it was easier than breathing air, like _they_ were nothing. Just something to dye their blades red. She lifts her cup just to hide her trembling lips behind it. She takes a sip, letting the tea burn into her mouth, scalding her tongue. She doesn't flinch. “They were superior to us in every way in combat.”

Gerel's hands are placed on top of Allura's again. “It must have been so terrible for you, watching all that. You're so young.”

Allura laughs. “Perhaps physically. But I am old enough to know a killer when I see one. I have seen more of them than I have any other creature.”

 _Like you,_ she does not say. The silence stretches and Gerel's thumbs continue on their trek of circles on the backs of Allura's hands. Trying to calm her or distract her, but either way, it's comforting if only for a moment. To be touched by someone other than Coran or Lance. But people do not give touch to the Altean royal family without wanting something in return, not anymore. “Allura,” Gerel says. “My sons are the best fighters I have seen. Keith is ferocious, Takashi is an expert in warfare and has been directing our armies since he was a boy. They will keep your brother safe, I will assure it. Lance will never be hurt again, not on Mamorian lands.”

Allura's eyes stay on the khatun's hands, cold like melted ice. If she closes her eyes she can feel the _drip drip drip_ all over her, sneaking inside her soul, freezing her to this land, to this woman. “That is another thing I fear, my khatun.” She drags her eyes up. “I fear you're lying to me.”

Gerel looks as if she's been struck. “ _Lying?_ ” she growls. “How dare-”

“It was a good farce, Gerel. The food, the pleasantries, bringing Lance out to see a show. You had me fooled.” She smiles. “But my brother is no fool. He knew better.”

Gerel rips her hands away from Allura, nearly spilling the boiling liquid over her lap. “In my country, proof is needed before such allegations are brought up.” She bares her teeth, barely contained rage simmering off her body like heat. “You are making a mockery of yourself.”

Allura sets the cup down and reaches into her pockets. The letter is still smooth to the touch, the parchment cream and warm. Gerel's eyes widen. “You went through my things?” her voice is dangerous and deep, a barely suppressed snarl behind her words.

“Not me. I was too stupid to think of it. Lance knew better.” She trades the letter with her cup, welcoming the warmth against her palms. Gerel's eyes are trained on the letter. “It was a good plan,” she notes. “Trade one boy for your country's immunity. Save your people, protect your sons. There is only one problem with your plan, Gerel.” Allura leans in. “That boy is _mine._ And I will not allow you to take him.”

Gerel lets out a laugh, her body suddenly relaxed as she leans back into her cushions. “They're already here, silly girl. There's nowhere for you to run. He will be taken, simple as that, and Mamora will be safe.” She shrugs a bony shoulder. “There is no saving you.”

Allura considers Gerel for a moment. Her cheekbones stick form her face, firelight dusting the sharp jaw and almond eyes. She might be a khatun, might be a mother, but she is no warrior. Allura smiles, sharp and predatory. “Does Keith know of your plan? Did he agree to it? Did he sign his signature, allow this to happen?” Gerel's spindly shoulders stiffen. Allura _tsks._ “I don't think he'll be pleased to hear it was you that sold his betrothed.”

“Keith is a strong boy. He will understand, and he will grow. There is no going back; the agreement has

been signed-”

“By you,” Allura corrects. “Only by you.”

Allura takes her cup and _flings_ it, sending the liquid into Gerel's eyes. Before Gerel can finish her howl Allura pushes out of her seat and into Gerel, knocking her onto the floor. “I will not allow you to take him,” she snarls.

Her fangs elongate, dipping underneath her chin. Gerel snarls back, her claws scratching and digging to no avail- they've been filed to the quick long ago. Gerel can barely open her eyes, the steaming liquid pushing into her corneas, burning them red. Allura pushes her weight onto Gerel, trapping her to the furs. “It's too late,” Gerel laughs. “The guards are gone, the Galra are in-” she grits her teeth against the pain “-they're already on their way to your brother's room, silly girl. Sweet girl. _Stupid girl._ ”

Allura digs her thumbs into Gerel's eyes, pushing until she feels the _squelsh_ against her fingers, hot blood squirting against her wrists. Gerel screams. “I know how to kill Galra,” Allura growls. “We've done it before, my khatun. We will not run.” She yanks Gerel's head back, ignoring her futile attempts at pulling Allura's hair. _“You will not have him.”_

She dives in and presses her canines into Gerel's throat, digs until she's gotten a good hold despite Gerel's squirming and screaming, and _rips._

Suddenly Gerel slumps, her strings cut. Allura sits up, breathing heavily, and spits out a mouthful of Gerel's blood onto the furs. Slowly she removes her claws from Gerel's eyesockets, careful not to yank the eyes themselves out. The fire rages on, kissing Gerel's profile, bathing her in a warmth she does not deserve. Her motuh is slack, open in a scream; her fangs, yellow and old, dangle from her gums. Gerel's country demands the eyes of the dead be closed so they can enjoy eternal peace.

Allura does not give her that privilege.

She steps over her body and goes to the basin, washing her chin until it's no longer sticky. Her fingers are the hardest part; there's blood underneath her claws, so she uses careful, slow movements with a cloth to chip it away. It comes off in clumps, sticking to the bottom of the golden basin. Soon the water is crimson, obscuring the proud, royal gold. Allura takes the basin and the cloth and dumps it all in the fire, watching as it spittles and sparks before dying.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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